Ode To Students

I have the kind of job where I often get the chance to think, "Wow. I'm really interested in what this student wrote."

Where I sometimes get to think, "Wow. I'm really proud of what this student has ended up writing."

And then there are those very rare moments when I get to think, "Wow. I wish I had written what this student wrote."

Sometimes, I am lucky enough to read a piece of student writing that leaves me with a true sense of wonder. How can someone so young say something so simply, so beautifully? Usually it is in moments when they are writing unselfconsciously, as in an email written late at night, or in the writing journals I have them keep. It was in one such journal that I came across this sentence:

English is the study of poorly defined questions.

I find myself...lingeringly troubled by this statement. Not because I think this student was knocking his English class, but because of those two descriptors: "poorly defined." As if to ask a question without a rigid shape, and without an easy answer, is something not quite to be trusted. As if by making a question blurry, it loses some of its potency; loses some of its importance.

Here's what I have to say about poorly defined questions (which, I warn you, is probably going to be a little obtuse):

They ask you not to calculate, but to explore. Not to find some right answer--the what--but the WHY. Why do things fall apart? Why do things hold together?

I understand why these questions are troubling. Poorly defined questions are steps into a dark tunnel, not knowing what you'll find there; they are expeditions that could lead you anywhere, or everywhere, or nowhere. They can make you feel like you're throwing yourself off a cliff with no means to claw your way back up. But they are also about making connections between different ideas, different threads, different moments in a piece of literature, and using them to find a larger possible truth. Why do things fall apart in Lord of the Flies? There are many reasons, and they all lead back to the question of whether we, as humans, are inherently good. Whether compassion and empathy can withstand the blunt force of the need to survive and to control. Are there clear answers to these questions? Are there easy answers? No. But might they lead us to conclusions that matter? I think so.

For me, poorly defined English aren't about answers. They are about the means by which you seek those answers--intellectually and otherwise--and what you might discover along the way. I love asking these questions in my classes because I learn about my students through the answers they give. I can ask a room of students, "What is the American Dream?" and they can answer in one of so many different ways, all of which can be both right and wrong. All of which will give me some insight into what interests my students, and what drives them, and what matters to them, which ends up being what matters to all of us.

What do I love about poorly defined questions? That essentially they are all asking about the same thing: about what it is to be alive in the world. And those questions will always result in different answers, and the same answers.

Photo Collection: Playing with Shadows

A few days ago, I walked through the woods on one of those rare winter afternoons where the sun is actually out and your soul starts to peek out from behind its woolen blanket. I found myself thinking about my writing, as I often do: about how stories need both light and dark--points of contrast and contradiction, of both soft lines and sharp edges--in order to capture my full attention. I don't know that I came to any conclusions about how to make that happen in my own story, but I did end up with some pretty pictures.

Why I Didn't Watch Even One Second of The Superbowl

Over the course of the past week, I realized something important about setting goals. I can't say that this realization was completely new to me: it's something I've understood for a while now, but haven't been able to really internalize in a meaningful and actionable way.

Every day, I make imposing TO DO lists. And every day, my to-do listing essentially sets me up for failure. Because my lists generally look like this one to the left.

This list represents the things that I feel I need to do in a given day, or cluster of days. Most of the things on this list are not five minute activities; they are complicated and involved.

There are a couple of things to note here. First, that this list sets up completely ridiculous expectations for a given day, at the end of which I will inevitably feel like I've failed. This list does not catalogue the inordinate numbers of things I need to do that I don't feel the need to write down. Before starting in on my to-do list, I have to teach a full day, eat, sleep, converse with colleagues, respond to email, attempt to inspire students to enjoy critical thinking and reading (and sometimes juggling and sonnet writing), get up and stretch, and maybe even exercise (if I get very lucky). Even if I had a full day at home in the quiet, sipping coffee at my desk, I don't know that this list is actionable. Even if I had two personal slaves personal assistants to help me, I don't think I could pull it off.

Second, its' important to note what tasks have remained unchecked. Which ones, you ask?

The personal ones: my writing and personal health goals. The ones that are really important to me.

Not to say that work-related goals aren't important to me. They really are. But are they always and forever the most IMPORTANT goals, the ones that should always get top billing? I'm not convinced.

My students are often lamenting the fact that they are given so much work and that what's expected of them isn't reasonable. They're right: it isn't reasonable to expect that they can give their very best to every class and every assignment on every given day. We only have so many hours in the day and so many iotas of concentration to contribute. That means you have to pick and choose where and how you expend your energy.  It's about making choices about what your priorities are going to be. It's also about knowing that you can't do it all. You can try, but you can't. At least you can't do it all well - and isn't that what we're striving for? Sometimes you have to ease off in certain aspects of your life in order to live the life you really want. It isn't an easy thing to do sometimes, but the alternative is feeling like you're always failing.

Which is why, instead of watching the Superbowl, I worked on revising my novel. Because I have a big goal of revising this novel in the next six weeks, and watching football isn't going to get me there.

Music I'm Writing To: Ben Howard, "Under The Same Sun"